Odessa's people were still dazed from Young Justice's assault slumped over containers, groaning in corridors thick with dust and tear-gas residue. Underpass didn't waste time. The first pair were dispatched quickly: an arm around the throat, a muffled gasp, two bodies eased to the floor. Anyone stirring got the same treatment — captured if useful, killed if not.
They swept the compound with precision, marking cleared rooms, cutting cameras, stripping radios, stacking unconscious guards in a pile where no one would notice until it was far too late. The occasional gunshot was silenced by a suppressor; the occasional scream, by a knife pressed to a windpipe.
At a control station, two Odessa men reached for an alarm. Naima was already there — a kick, a crack of knuckles, and both were zip-tied before they could even shout.
Her comm buzzed. She tapped it.
"Dre, Plan B. Batman and Young Justice crashed the party. We've taken the Odessa docks compound. We need noise. Big noise. Draw them away."
A low breath on the other end.
"Copy. Distraction in ten. Don't get pinned."
The line cut.
Naima lifted her hand — two fingers forward. Underpass flowed deeper inside, gathering weapons, cash, maps — anything that mattered — while the last survivors were bound and shoved into dark corners.
***
Vey limped through the subterranean rail passages, breath ragged, ribs screaming with every step. His mask filtered the oily stench of iron and rot, but even that felt too constricting as pain clawed up his spine. Behind him, somewhere in the maze above, the Bat Family still hunted.
Don't stop. Don't stop.
He pushed through a rusted maintenance grate and was spat out near a storm-drain mouth. Fresh night air rushed in, cold and harsh.
Then—
BOOM.
A distant explosion shook the concrete beneath his boots. The shockwave rolled through the underbelly of Gotham.
Vey froze. Then—
A slow, relieved breath.
Right… the rest of the plan.
He slipped into the sewer tunnel proper, boots splashing through muck. When he felt certain no cape followed, he finally ripped off his mask and let his back hit the slime-coated wall. His entire body trembled — panic still flooding his veins. He slid down until he was nearly sitting in the filth.
His forehead pressed into his palms.
Breathing hard.
Muttering to no one and everyone,
"fuck fuck fuck FUCK!"
He forced himself to stop.
A long inhale.
A practiced exhale.
"Pull it together," he whispered to the empty dark.
Straightening his posture, he smoothed his hair back, wiped sewer water from his jaw, rebuilding the façade of control — and started walking again.
Soon, two Underpass scouts emerged from shadows. "Boss," they whispered, and led him deeper into the labyrinth. The tunnels widened into a central chamber lit by battery lamps and burning barrels.
There stood Dre — grime-covered, makeshift armor strapped over his jacket, a shotgun slung at his hip. When he saw Vey, he grinned, relief hidden beneath bravado.
"I heard things got shaky up there," Dre said, voice low. "We lost the rails?"
Vey nodded once. "For now."
He clasped Dre's forearm, holding tight.
"But tonight was not a total loss."
His gaze sharpened.
"Where's the GCPD tap? I know you guys set one up."
Dre jerked his head. "Over here."
They ducked into a small alcove where a police-band radio sat wired to a jury-rigged receiver. Kieran slid into the driver's seat of his mind — posture straight, voice crisp, cadence flawless. He thumbed the button and spoke like he'd worn the badge for twenty years:
"Unit 5-1 responding to the docks. Odessa compound cleared. Explosion reported northbound. Rerouting to investigate. Advise all units: negative on active engagement at docks. Maintain perimeter only."
Static. Then voices layered over each other:
"Copy, 5-1."
"All units, divert north."
"Perimeter standby."
Kieran clicked off, handing the radio back.
The confidence held in his eyes — barely.
"That buys us a couple hours," he said. "Maybe until daylight. We need to have the docks quietly fortified into our territory by the morning."
Dre smirked, respect showing through exhaustion.
"Then we make them count."
"Good, I want hourly reports. We can think about going back into the rails in a couple days when the heat dies down."
***
Steam blurred the penthouse windows into grey sheets. Water sluiced down Nolan's shoulders, hot and heavy, tracking grime and sweat into the drain. He stood under the shower a long time, hands against the tile, muscles knotted and sore. The city throbbed below — sirens, distant shouts, the thin, relentless sound of conflict — and his people were still moving through the night somewhere in that mess.
Quiet lived in the tile and glass; inside his head the chorus did not.
"Tonight was a loss," Nolan said into the steam. "A total loss. No spin makes it better."
Kieran's voice was slick and soft from somewhere behind his eyes. "We still took the docks. That's something."
Quentin cut in, sharp as broken glass. "The docks are a prize when things are peaceful. In wartime they're a target. They're a magnet for every hungry crew in the city. Hard to defend, easiest to take. We lost the rails because Batman and his little squad showed up. Plain and simple. Now if we lose the docks, we get cut out. We lose supply lines, water access, the swing points. That equals everything we've built down there. At some point we will need the rails back they are too valuable."
Nolan scrubbed his face with his palms. Water ran in rivers off his knuckles. "There has to be a way to take back the rails without the Bat breathing down our necks every time."
Kieran exhaled like velvet. "He can't sit on us forever."
"Not alone," Quentin interrupted. "Not now. Not with his little goon squad in his pocket. They spread his attention. They're small, fast — they plug gaps Batman can't always cover. The war's widening. It's going to get worse before it gets better. If we keep trying to hold the big prizes, they'll keep hammering us where it hurts."
Vey's voice — cool, measured — threaded through next. "Then stop playing their game. Big territory is heavy. It needs bodies, defenses, visibility. Small bites are better. Small, quiet nodes: a storage yard, a back alley clinic, a shuttered storefront. Take the little things and stitch them together. When the docks need support, they'll have webbed routes to fall back on. Less target, more spine."
Quentin grunted, satisfied. "Exactly. Scatter the risk. If we own the small stuff around the docks, taking the docks back will be less dramatic and more logistics. We bleed slower, plan smarter. If we take the smaller territories around the docks they will have to fight an uphill battle to even reach our main buildings."
Nolan let the water drum on his skull while the plans rearranged themselves in his mind. He rubbed at his hair until the tension in his neck loosened fractionally.
"Small territories," he repeated, out loud this time, as if sealing the thought. "Not everything at once. Hold what we can, then pry the rest back. Move quiet and perhaps a little smarter."
The shower hissed. He straightened, finished, and stepped out into towels and cold air. The war would not wait for comfort. He wrapped himself and felt the muscle of the plan steady beneath his skin.
"Alright," he said finally, voice low. "That's what we do. Keep working."
-
A/N: learning moment for not only Nolan but also his personalities and his organization. None of his personalities have the knowledge of large orginization management. To be defeated is to learn what to improve.